The ghost that is you.

Walking down that footpath as angel tears fall from the sky. The heaven’s ripped, much like my heart, and something in me dies. My room is cold, where you once were. I could swear that you were here. Then it starts to dawn on me, it becomes painfully clear. You are gone, not coming back. And I am left to mourn. To the cruel hand that fate has dealt I project my hateful scorn. Walking down that footpath, now angel’s tears are dry. You’re not coming back it seems and my love for you has died.